


inbetween the moon and you

by Neffectual



Series: My American Boys [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Blowjobs, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Murder, Necrophilia, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Tinder as a way to find victims, Violence, abuse of a corpse, choosing victims, sex while covered in blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22928464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: There's two serial killers sharing the same town, until one night, their paths cross. Turns out, one of them doesn't have to win. They can always work together.
Relationships: MV Young/RJ City
Series: My American Boys [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647922
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	inbetween the moon and you

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is from Counting Crows' "Round Here".
> 
> Blame MV for taking selfies in "the murder bathroom" and making me think of him all bloodied. Blame RJ for like, existing and being pretty, I guess.

There’s two of them, circling the city and leaving calling cards with just two initials on, and perhaps they were never meant to meet, but Tinder draws all lost souls together eventually, and neither of them could pass up the other once they’d seen. RJ knows that, once MV had seen him, he was destined for the murder bathroom, chained to the pipes, screaming unheard screams for help, pleading for mercy. MV knows that, once RJ had seen him, he was destined for the handcuffs around the headboard, the wide, frightened eyes, the long knife at his throat. 

They both bring sex into their kills in different ways; RJ prefers his flesh willing and alive, MV prefers his dead and cooling, but they both recruit victims on the dating apps. They both trade in their sensuality and attractiveness for a higher body count, and count on the anonymity of the internet to hide their tracks. Their first meeting doesn’t end in bloodshed, because when MV offers his place to RJ, he just asks “how stupid do you think I am, killer?” and MV admits his whole plan. There’s something in RJ’s eyes, some electricity, some light, that lets him know here’s someone, finally, who will understand. RJ says exactly what he wanted, too, and the two of them get coffee, each other’s numbers, and go home. Unsatisfied, but each still thinking of the other.

  
“You’re risky,” RJ says, the first time MV takes him home and shows him the bathroom – half the wall crumbled, pipes protruding, marked with scuffs and scratches from the chains of previous victims. “You kill in your house? How do you get the bodies out?”  
MV smiles, horribly.

“Do you want to find out?” he asked, raking his eyes along RJ’s body. A little more built than his usual victims, but there’s nothing wrong with branching out sometimes. Throws the cops off the scent, and stops it getting boring, too.

“Not firsthand,” RJ drawls, smirk toying at the edges of his mouth the way a cat toys with a mouse. “But I’d be amenable to an observation at a later date.”  
A later date. MV lets his smile become a grin, wider and sharper and full of teeth.

“It can be arranged.”

  
RJ takes MV to a hotel room, just like the dozen or so forgettable ones he’s killed in before, shows him the handcuffs and the knife, and smiles when MV licks the blade before handing it back.

“You really do this in public?” MV asks, trying to fathom the balls it takes to do that, to make someone scream knowing that there’s rooms on either side, housekeeping staff, people walking by the door. “Without bribing anyone?”

“It’s convenient,” RJ says, with a one-shouldered shrug. His hands are itching to pin MV to the bed, to press him down on clean sheets and make them dirty – with blood or other fluids. In this one case, he’s not fussy. “Shower takes care of me, housekeeping takes care of them. People die in hotels all the time.”

“Not usually from a six inch blade to the neck,” MV says, but he’s smiling as he says it.

“It’s at least seven,” RJ says, and they both know that, for once, it’s not an innuendo. “Did you need a closer look?”

“Not firsthand,” MV says, echoing RJ’s comment from before. “But I’d watch.”

  
The first two dates they try, of RJ’s pick, take one look at MV in the shadows nearby, clock him as the jealous boyfriend, or perhaps a pimp, and bail early, leaving RJ tetchy and frazzled as his lusts – all of them – go unsated. His hair feels less shiny, his complexion less clear, his body less graceful, when he hasn’t had a kill in a while. He’s pretty sure a therapist would tell him that all this murder stems from deep-rooted insecurities about his body, and how it makes people value him, and what he’d be without it. He’s pretty sure a therapist who knew any details would run screaming from the room.

“Last chance,” he hisses, and MV’s hand slips higher on his thigh, the two of them looking like any attractive couple on a coffee date getting a little handsy. “One of yours.”  
Much to RJ’s disgust, MV’s hookup doesn’t even bat an eyelid when he’s told that RJ’s coming with, or that they’re going back to MV’s place. Idiot’s basically asking to be murdered.

  
RJ decides pretty quickly that he hates MV’s way of doing things. For starters, they’ve been upstairs for two hours now, watching Bringing Up Baby – RJ has to keep pausing it to explain what’s going on to MV – and the screaming and crying hasn’t stopped. RJ slants his eyes across to MV, who’s visibly hard, and tries, with difficulty, not to make a face. The crying and shit… delayed gratification never got his rocks off as fast as immediate procurement of his wants. But, different strokes for different folks, as they say.

Still, the crying is annoying, and the murder bathroom – MV literally calls it a murder bathroom, like he has no idea what subtlety is – looks like a bitch to clean, even with the plastic sheeting on one of the walls. There’s smears of old, dried blood on the crumbling plaster, and the place smells like an abattoir. There’s even insulation visible. RJ doesn’t know how anyone can live like this, but apparently, it’s what gets MV off. And they’re friends, nominally, so he’s going to see it through. He just wishes he’d brought some sort of ear protection, or a gag.

Apropos of nothing, MV gets up, picks a knife from the kitchen knife block – talk about unsanitary – and heads down the stairs, tossing a look over his shoulder at RJ, who follows, uncharacteristically silent. This isn’t his domain, isn’t his kill, and he’s just here to observe. He leans against a wall, grimacing, and watches MV torment his victim with words, never letting them get enough breath to reply, before he takes the guy apart systematically. He pauses.

“You wanna watch me get off, or you wanna help?” he rasps, and, well, RJ’s only human. He pushes away from the wall and drops to his knees.

After, when MV asks for help in dismemberment and disposal, RJ’s almost flattered. MV trusting him with a bonesaw at his back is a big step for people like them. But he shakes his head with an easy smile.

“Do I look like I do housework?” he asks, then looks at his hands. “Besides, this manicure wasn’t cheap.”

When he leaves, the bitterness of come mixing with the copper richness of blood in his mouth, he’s smiling. He can’t wait to show MV how to do things his way.

  
It makes MV nervous, being in public as they pick up their date for the evening, finally having stopped fucking about with lurking in shadows and surprising people, and becoming that couple on Tinder looking for a third. RJ’s less particular about gender than MV, who usually likes men for killing and women for easy sex, so MV doesn’t know who approaching might be their victim. He figures it can’t be anyone who’s less than a seven, maybe an eight in good light, because RJ’s a prim little fuck underneath it all. Well, he considers, remembering, not that prim when fucking’s on the table. Or the floor. Or against the wall. 

But either way, RJ likes his scenes a little cleaner, apparently, and turned his nose up at MV’s house as their permanent kill room. So they’ll do this RJ’s way, as much as MV doesn’t understand it. Why risk being seen picking someone up in a hotel lobby, why risk booking a room, when you can eliminate that easily? But RJ said something about not shitting where he eats, and MV didn’t care enough to question it.

RJ’s standing now, greeting someone who, frankly, could be MV with another ten years on him, and MV smiles, liking the idea of murdering his future, but keeps to the background as much as possible. It’s easy to let RJ do the talking, after all, and before he knows it, they’re in a hotel room, and RJ’s naked with their victim – MV doesn’t ever remember their names – and rolling a condom on himself before starting to slip in. Must’ve asked the guy to prep himself beforehand, MV thinks idly, and smart to top, because keeping more evidence off the scene with the condom is good planning. MV can respect that.

When RJ cuffs their victim, he’s quick to reach for the knife, and then it’s all over but the arterial spray. Some of it’s even on the ceiling, MV notices, idly. RJ gets off the bed, covered in blood, and looks at MV with half-lidded eyes, like he’s just had the best orgasm of his life, despite still being hard.

“Wanna come fuck me in the shower?” he asks, casually, as if they’re not standing in a bloodbath.

“Sure,” says MV, because it’s not like he cares about a little mess.

  
They don’t hunt together very often, neither of them enthralled by the other’s technique or style, but they do find themselves meeting up after; MV picking RJ up from a hotel, RJ taking off his shirt and revealing the drying blood still painting him; RJ taking MV out after a kill, the two of them grinding out adrenaline on the dance floor before taking it to a back room. They leave bruises on each other, scratch marks, dark purple bites that have nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with consuming every little scrap of each other until there’s nothing left.

They kill and they fuck and they don’t worry about the consequences, and while RJ may say they’ll catch up with them eventually, MV doesn’t care. They’ve had six gloriously bloody months so far, and he’d take another day of this over another year of going back to only fucking someone if their throat was already slit. After all, RJ couldn’t make such pretty noises without a larynx.

RJ wants to think it’s too good to be true, and knows that eventually, MV will probably take him out for good, removing the competition being one of the main parts of the game. But when he has MV’s hands on his hips, holding him up, when he has that hungry mouth on his skin, he considers it to be a fair trade.

One late night a month, people whisper, that’s when the killer strikes. It must be one person, because they’re so well-scheduled, and always happen the same day, but they’re two wildly different crime scenes. And when the full moon bathes their skin a milky silver, RJ reaches for MV’s hand, and they walk together, knives tucked away, smiling like any young couple in love. And aside from the blood under MV’s fingernails, and drying in RJ’s hair, they could be. Some people say psychopaths can’t love, but when MV looks at RJ, watches his eyes shining with the joy of being alive, he knows, deep in the tarnished remnants of his soul, that isn’t true. It’s just that most psychopaths don’t ever find their equal.

“You’re beautiful in moonlight,” MV says, meaning, you’re beautiful when you’re bloody.

“I am,” RJ says, meaning, yes, I know. And I’m most beautiful when I’m yours.

Neither of them needs to say it. But if they whisper the words, on one moonlit night, well. That’s between them and the moon.


End file.
